waiting to order a falafel kebab, humus, chilli, salad?
Lab results. On T.V. they are accompanied by Drum and Bass music. Isolate the strain! Identify the virus! But that’s not me. I’m not dying, or suffering in a physical way. I am waiting though. The kettle has already boiled, even with me watching it.
Could I be waiting for a verdict? Did I commit a crime of passion; her blood on the wall and his trailing down the stairs, to where he almost got away. The pole from my Hoover had served as an unlikely but effective weapon.
The police saw through the gore straight away. They weren’t mean to me. They understood what had happened. But, the law’s the law, right?
My walls are clean. There is no her for a him to exist. I don’t meet hers often. They live out there in the world.
“You wouldn’t believe what he said then!”
“Oh! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know! Ok, I do! Tell! Tell! Tell!”
“I’ll have a latte please. Thank you.”
“I just saw the most amazing dress!”
“Really? Where?”
“Around the corner, in B-Wear.”
“How much?”
“It’s fifty, but it used to be eighty!”
“Oh!”
“Yeah! I’ll take you round there after. I’m not sure if it suits my hair this colour. But anyway, I’m just dying to tell…”
Damn it! I don’t know what else they say. They may not even say that.

Will there be a knock on the door? Will I start and shudder at the tap, tap, tap? Din dong, which would be more likely, could leave me in a shower of sweat. If I was waiting for a drop in.
A phone call then; from the exam board.
“You’ve passed! Congratulations Mr Inconsequential!” I’d jump around and punch the air with who-ha! And all the rest.
“You’ll have to repeat. I’m sorry.” Could I must the energy to repeat? The loans are already putting a terrible weight on my family life. Start studying again and working at night? I’m so tired already. Another year would finish us both.
“You’re a father Mr Incon. Good show! Congratulations sir. I know it must be difficult, being under house arrest as you are. I know you must have been worried about your… wife? So, I called you right away. Almost before the papers!”
Oh, joyous joy! I’m a dad. Time to plan for the future. Will he be a great politician? Yes. A great man. Aw! My little girl. She’s so beautiful and clever too. She is headed for the hearts and carnal visions of a million young men. I will have to fain a terminal illness or a disability until she grows old and ugly. I could keep her to myself and away from those randy whelps! She’ll care for me forever, while I ruin her life, by not allowing it to begin. Well done Dad. That’s the way forward.
Alas, I’m not likely to father a boy or girl. I’m an empty shirt! House arrest in a way though, I’ll concede. Self-imposed.
“Listen, Mr Soandso. You need to leave the house. Your agoraphobia is growing worse and you’re headed for collapse.”
I’ll have to be sedated and taken to a home for torture/questioning. That wouldn’t bother me, so long as the rooms are nice and small.
“So Mr Soandso, society has let you down somehow, has it?”
I would tell them that no, it was not true. Society has not let me down at all. In fact they have built me up!
“Mr Soandso. We love your work. You can do no wrong. Every piece you generate is far superior to that last. Can you do no wrong?”
The problem with me is that I’d begin to think: “Of course I can do wrong. I am bound to do so, sooner, in fact, rather than later.”
Also, a compliment always has, at the very least, two meanings. One ha-ya: a photo snapshot of the phrase in itself, and two ha-ya: the other, buried beneath, to be exhumed by the obsessive ball-breakers amongst us.
One ha-ya: Better and better? Wow! Thanks. That’s really nice of you to say.
Two ha-ya: What? Superior to my last work? Which was superior to the work previous? All my other work was worse than this one? I don’t even like this one! It’s fecally inept. Why would you say such a thing? Don’t you know I have no sense of self?

Back to the waiting.
Am I waiting for the crowds to dissipate? To be anonymous again. That would be great; although I spent so long trying to get noticed.
“Can I help you sir?”
“Twenty Bensons please.”
“Here you go. Oh! Hey! You’re that fellow. That guy! The one who killed the president. The man who strangled a rapist to death. I loved you in that thing you were in. I thought that Whatdoyoucallit was probably your best work. Didn’t you have a new Thingamajig out recently? I heard it didn’t make much sense. I heard that you’d lost it and jumped through a bookstore window, trying to bleed your way into the irony, while missing the meaning completely. Everyone was really disappointed with how it all turned out.
“Can I have my change please?”
“You ignorant bastard! I followed you! We own you!”

Outside, a woman rushes up to me. She wants something. Oh no, it’s probably one of those Charity People, or something. She wants me to sign up to Save the Children, or some entity.
She waves a piece of paper in my face and I swipe it into slipstream, never breaking from my transmission.
“I’m dhcleaf!” she cries as I move quickly on.
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry. I’ve already signed up to everything in existence.”
I get fifty metres away until I realise what she said and what was on the paper.
“I’m deaf,” she’d said, and on the paper was a hand-drawn map. She was lost and looking for help. The city of London roared all around her and she could not hear it and I’d shrugged her off like a bad tackle.
I came home then and haven’t been out since.
“Aw diddems! You poor little sensitive pooch!” What a terrible encounter for you. Not her.
More fantasy; this is not why I am waiting.

Am I convinced that the end of the world is at hand? Was I persuaded by the birds and the numbers I found?
When I entered the park last month, I noticed that all the birds were walking on the ground. Not just the pigeons, but the robins and the jays too. It was strange, but I forgot about it. Then, last week, I noticed that they were all lined up and the lines formed symbols. The symbols were numbers and the numbers were five-eight-three-four. I thought, strange, aren’t their five points on a pentagram? Couldn’t I remember that eight was the perfect number; the octave? And, there was definitely significance in the number three; father sun and holy g, as well as the sacred shape of the pyramid. And finally, there were four horses of the apocalypse. Holy shit! We are all going to die.
First I tried the papers, then the priests. I received nothing by laughter from both. Let me tell you, it feels lousy to have a priest laugh at you until his nose gets runny.
Yesterday as I stood upon the pier, I looked into the water and saw the immense shadow of a Kraken as it readied itself for the final rise.

But I’m no visionary, you know that. Nor am I sick, in hiding, or important.
I am a stain, unknown and without pity or need of any.
I sink to the bottom and I look out the window and wait. I look into the grey which seems to last so long. Where are my avian friends and their long-awaited song?
I wait and fret and wonder at the day that may be, if only I could go outside. If only it were daytime.
How I wish that I could sleep.